


open up my heart (stick your fingers in)

by hellalujah



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Depression, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellalujah/pseuds/hellalujah
Summary: Hiding from your problems is great, until your problems actually make an effort to come find you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is... really old. i wrote it back in april and just never posted it for a variety of reasons, mostly because it's a fairly personal fic. but! here you go. the first Big Portzo fic i ever wrote.
> 
> soundtrack: [giles corey - blackest bile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXPp_5Q5CHk)
> 
> xo

It’s mid-afternoon, or maybe it’s closer to evening now. Mat’s not sure.

He can smell the heat coming off the pavement outside, cloying and oppressive. His hair is sticking to the sweat on his forehead and neck and he notes distantly that he should cut it soon.

The grind of his broken AC trying to kick in doesn't make him jump, not anymore. It's just one more reminder that it's the height of summer and his plants are probably starting to die, that he should probably water them; it’s been days now.

He doesn't move from his bed.

His phone has been buzzing against the laminate for the last day or so with dozens of Twitter notifications, texts. He's pretty sure at one point he rolled over and saw a missed call from Jake.

Mat curls his fingers into a fist and digs his nails into his palm. He really fucked up this time.

He rolls over in bed, stretches out his fingers to run them across the coolness of the wall. If he's honest with himself, he's been fucking up for years. This has all been building for an embarrassingly long time.

He should be talking to someone about all this, probably. He glances at his watch and does some quick mental calculation; it's not late in the day, he could call his mom. But he's not sure what he'd say.

He turns over again to stare into his bedroom. It's not as much of a mess as it could be - tidy pyramid of beer cans stacked on his desk and his trashcan is only half full of take out containers. He hasn't gotten dressed in days, and most of his laundry is still clean and piled in one corner of the room.

He reaches out to scoop up his still buzzing phone.

There're too many notifications to get through. The idea of opening any of them at all is terrifying, makes his heart pound and anxious nausea swell up through the haze of nothingness, so he just hits the clear button and opens his texts. At least a dozen from Jake. Close to the same from his mom. There's even one from Anton, who he hasn’t spoken to in months.

He tugs the charger plug out of the bottom of the phone and rolls over to the face the wall again. He swipes listlessly through his apps, hesitating for a moment before deleting Twitter. Out of sight, out of mind. At least he won't have to deal with it until he opens up his laptop.

The phone starts to hum angrily in his hand and Jake’s name flashes up on the screen.

Mat just looks for a moment, lets the phone ring a few times before tapping the answer button and pressing it to his ear.

“...yeah, I'm trying again! Maybe he'll pick up this time, huh…” There's the giddy sound of a baby giggling in the background.

Mat’s mouth curls into a smile, a genuine one, and it feels strange on his face. “Jake,” he says into the phone.

“Mat!” The surprise in his voice is transparent and for a second Mat almost feels bad.

“Where have you been, man, what the fuck?” Jake goes on, voice picking up volume until Mat has to hold the phone a little ways away from his ear. “I've called like five times in the last two days!”

“Has it been two days?” Mat asks, unconcerned, picking at lint on his pillow.

“Dude,” says Jake, and Mat can practically see the confused expression on his face. “Have you not been online since…?” He pauses for a long moment. “Where have you been?”

Mat shrugs to himself, runs a palm over his rumpled sheets. “At home.”

Jake makes a strange sputtering noise. “Dude, what the fuck,” he says again. “I thought you’d gone off on some fuckin’ soul-searching road trip again. Why wouldn’t you answer my calls?”

“I don’t know,” Mat says, honestly. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry,” Jake grumbles.

There’s a moment of silence that starts to stretch uncomfortably.

“Hey, I have to go,” Mat says eventually.

“Look, Mat-,”

“I have some stuff to do,” Mat says, pushes his hair out of his eyes and twists it around his fingers.

He's quiet for a moment and he hears Ezra start to cry in the background. Jake mumbles out a curse.

“Thanks for calling,” says Mat, then hangs up.

\---

He doesn't think there was really any reason for it, his extremely public Twitter outburst. He was just tired, tired of everyone lying, tired of how fake everyone was being. Tired of being ignored by the people that actually matter.

Or the person, anyway.

Maybe it was a cry for attention. Maybe he thought if someone noticed how bad things were getting something could’ve been salvaged. His reputation wouldn’t be in the state it’s in now.

He fucked up. It’s his own fault.

His stomach growls hollowly and he forces himself out of bed.

Mat finds an old, open box of Triscuits at the back of his cupboard. Kind of stale, but he sits on his kitchen floor in his underwear and eats them anyway. He can't be bothered to call out for food, isn't that hungry to begin with, and the thought of having to speak to someone even just for the minutes it would take them to drop off the food makes his anxiety spike.

He idly snaps one of the crackers in half before popping it in his mouth.

The tile is cool against his bare calves and he pays more attention to that than the actual process of eating. He turns a Triscuit over in his hand a couple of times, disinterested, then puts it back in the box. The wall behind him presses solid and grounding against his spine. He glances at his watch and is distantly surprised that an hour has passed since he sat down.

He has to grip the counter when he stands up, knees popping. He’s exhausted. He doesn't understand why; he hasn't been doing much at all in the last couple of days, he has no reason to really be tired.

It's easy enough to shrug off and he pads into his bathroom. He stares at his reflection for a long moment, vaguely blurry, and realizes he doesn't know where his glasses are. He shrugs that off too.

His electric razor is sitting on the counter and he considers it for a long moment before picking it up. He runs his other hand through his too-long hair, hanging greasy and lank around his face.

Cutting it all off somehow seems easier than washing it. He clicks the razor on.

It doesn't take long to get rid of it all, and soon his bathroom floor is littered with hair. He looks dully at his blurred face in the mirror and runs his hand over his fuzzy head, then down his jaw. The thought of shaving his face abruptly makes him even more exhausted and he turns away.

He leaves the mess on the floor and ends up back in his bed, curled on his side and staring at the wall. His sheets stay tangled at the foot of the bed. The sun sets in what feels like no time at all, creeping shadows shifting into all-encompassing dark.

\---

At some point, Mat must fall asleep staring into the darkness. He jolts awake to his phone vibrating off the bed and clattering to the floor. Sunlight is streaming in the window and the room is sweltering. Mat scrambles for his phone and stares at the screen, disoriented. ‘DOOR BUZZER’ flashes at him.

He taps blearily at the ignore button, squints at the time. It's already afternoon, but he rolls over again to press his face back into his pillows. He's so tired.

His phone starts to buzz again.

He opens one eye to stare at the words flashing across the screen, then hits ignore again. He wonders briefly if it's Jake, thinks he's probably the only person in LA who would be dragging their ass out to see him. Especially after all that’s happened.

He stretches out on his back, goes to run a hand through his hair before he remembers it's all gone. Something strange and foreign swells in his stomach, something like regret, and he huffs out a humorless breath. It's a parody of a laugh and he ends up palming roughly at the fuzziness left on his head.

His phone is buzzing again and he doesn't bother looking this time.

And then he hears someone shout his name from outside.

His bedroom window faces the street, and at first he assumes the person is yelling for some other Mat. It takes a moment to register the familiarity of the voice and when he does realize, an ominous buzzing starts in his ears. He shifts up the mattress, comes up on his knees at the edge of the bed to peer out the window.

He recognizes the swoosh of brown hair, the broad shoulders, freckled arms.

Porter looks up and their eyes meet. He looks angry, backpack hanging from one shoulder and eyes blazing.

“Open your _fucking_ door,” he yells up, and Mat recoils from the window.

His pulse is racing and he's having a hard time getting his lungs to inflate properly. The phone starts vibrating again, muffled against his mattress. When he picks it up his hands are shaking, and he nearly drops it when he accepts the call from the buzzer and taps the number to unlock the door.

He stands in the middle of his room staring down at his phone for what feels like a very long time before he hears the front door knob rattle, then persistent knocking.

Porter's voice comes, muffled through the door, telling him to unlock it. Mat bends, slow, to pick up what looks like a clean shirt and pull it over his head before he pads across the apartment to open the door.

As soon as it's open Porter shoves his way in, slams it behind him.

“What the fuck,” he says immediately, drops his backpack on the ground. He's glaring at Mat, cheeks flushed and skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

He's beautiful, always.

Mat's stomach clenches, pulse pounding in his throat. It's the most he's felt in months. Everything before this moment feels so distant and hazy, like the last year he's spent alone was some kind of fever dream. He can't bring himself to speak.

Porter shakes his head, letting out an irritated breath when Mat doesn't respond, and kicks his shoes off into the corner. He strides into the kitchen to pick up the Triscuit box Mat had left on the floor the previous day, jams it back into a cupboard.

He paces around for a moment like he doesn't know what to do with himself, then starts loading the stack of dirty dishes on the counter into the dishwasher. Mat doesn't move from his place in the entryway of his apartment.

Porter slams the dishwasher shut and turns to glare at Mat.

“What the fuck,” he says again, a little less vicious this time. When Mat still doesn't respond, Porter exhales, angry, through his nose, and heads toward the closed bathroom door. Something like anxious embarrassment stabs through Mat’s chest.

“Wait,” Mat says, and Porter stops to look at him.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“I’ve - I need to-,” He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence so he just drops his gaze, goes to the closet to get a broom and dustpan. He can feel Porter's eyes on him as he slips into his bathroom. The pile of shorn hair is on the floor where he left it yesterday and he stares down at it for a moment. He runs his hand over his scalp. Another nauseating pang of loss wobbles through his stomach.

He eventually sweeps it up, dumps the hair into the wastebasket. The rest of the bathroom isn't in terrible shape and he feels alright about leaving it.

When he steps back into the living room Porter is sitting on his couch, tapping at his phone. Mat just watches him for a second, something soft and bright shimmering in his chest. The dark sweep of Porter’s lashes are just visible from this angle, the thick tendons in his neck tensing briefly when Porter realizes he's being watched. He turns to look and Mat realizes his eyes are red.

“Hi,” Mat says, belated.

Porter exhales loudly, looks away to press his fingers into his forehead. He looks like he’s deflated a little since bursting into the apartment. Mat watches him with something like awe. He can feel his hands trembling at his sides.

Silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable.

“You cut your hair,” says Porter eventually. He doesn't look at Mat when he says it.

“Yeah,” responds Mat, lamely.

Porter reaches up idly to run his fingers through his own hair and Mat, very suddenly, wants Porter's hands on him. Wants his hands on Porter.

He always has and he hates himself for it.

The hazy softness that has become an integral part of him in the last year starts to recede, replaced with a hollow, echoing ache. The one he spent months carefully filling with an apathetic fog. He sucks in a laboured breath, and gravity seems to be building and pushing him down and down until something in him cracks and he has to physically sit down on the floor.

Porter looks at him, startled.

Mat quietly crosses his legs and stares down at his lap. The swell of emptiness is a debilitating bubble of pressure in his stomach and he feels over-full, like something in him is on the verge of bursting and spilling out uncontrollably.

The humming in his ears intensifies.

“Mat,” comes Porter's voice, and Mat doesn't look up.

Mat can hear the shake in Porter's voice, can hear how he's trying to stay angry but is on the verge of tears. He always was a crier and the thought that Mat's the one making Porter unhappy makes Mat's stomach cramp up.

“What’s going on?” Porter asks, tiny and sad and scared, and Mat’s heart breaks.

He tilts his face up to meet Porter’s gaze, forces something he hopes is a smile onto his lips. “I had a weird moment,” he says, voice soft but as sincere as he can make it. “That’s all.”

Porter looks down at him from his perch on the couch, face tense. He looks angry again, eyes shining and glossy with tears.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. He moves abruptly to kneel on the ground in front of Mat and a tear slips free; he wipes it away angrily. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Mat just looks for a second, the ever-present exhaustion oppressive and heavy on his shoulders. He’s so tired, tired of the leaden weight in all of his limbs and tired of being alone in this. For a moment he considers telling Porter everything. The thought makes him distantly nauseous, anxiety stabbing through his chest and pulse quickening.

Instead, he shakes his head.

“I’m okay,” he lies.

Porter keeps staring at him; Mat can see his mouth tighten like he wants to yell, and Mat kind of wishes that he would. Eventually Porter turns away, looks back at his phone.

“I’m going to order dinner. What do you want?”

Surprise surfaces under the ache and Mat tilts his head. When he doesn’t answer, Porter looks at him from the corner of his eye.

“I’m staying here for a couple of nights,” he says, and his tone says that nothing Mat can say will stop him.

“Okay,” says Mat.

\---

Porter ends up ordering sushi, because of course he does.

They're eating in what is almost a companionable silence, Porter popping pieces of sushi into his mouth and playing some game on his phone, something to do with cats. Mat picks at a California roll and pointedly does not look at his own phone.

There's a movie playing on the TV, just loud enough that it almost drowns out the perpetual hum in his ears that hasn't stopped since Porter showed up. It’s some comedy, something Porter pretended not to care about but it’s clear he selected it carefully; it’s inane and irrelevant and entirely ideal as a distraction.

It almost makes Mat want to smile.

Mat stays sitting on the floor. Keeping his centre of gravity low seems to help with the omnipresent anxiety. Every now and then he can feel Porter glance at him from the couch and Mat keeps his eyes focused on the TV screen.

The movie ends and Mat lifts his head from where he’s laid it on the coffee table.

“Why are you in LA?” he asks without turning around.

Porter’s silent for a moment and Mat wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

“I was in Vegas,” Porter responds, and Mat’s stomach twists up.

“Oh,” he says. His brain feels like it's humming, something under the numbness trying to force its way up. Something selfish and jealous and bitter.

They’re both quiet again for a second, then Porter sighs and Mat can hear him shift against the couch, hears joints popping as he stretches.

“Nicole and I split,” says Porter, and Mat does turn this time. Porter opens his eyes as he finishes stretching and meets Mat’s gaze. He smiles a little at Mat’s naked surprise. “We’re still friends,” he continues, rolls his shoulders. “It’s just hard, with our schedules. There really weren’t any problems, otherwise.” He sighs again. “It sucks but it makes sense.”

Mat watches him for a second, then says “oh,” again.

The silence becomes a little awkward and Mat stares down at his hands.

There’s the sound of movement, again, and then Porter is sitting on the floor next to him. The proximity makes Mat’s heart pound and he wants to turn his face into Porter’s shoulder and stay there. He can smell Porter from this close, his deodorant and natural smell almost overwhelming with the reality of his presence.

“I saw what happened on Twitter,” starts Porter gently, “and I came here because I was scared for you.”

Mat continues staring down, tries to focus on keeping his hands steady.

“I was worried,” Porter says, and Mat can feel him move closer into his space.

A warm hand splays across his back and it nearly undoes him.

“I’m going to bed,” Mat croaks, standing up so quickly that it makes him nauseous. He sways in place briefly, steps away from Porter. “There’re blankets in the closet, use whatever you need.”

Porter doesn’t say anything and Mat knows he’s probably made him cry again.

Mat goes to his room and shuts the door.

\---

He doesn’t sleep, not for a long time.

He listens to Porter moving around the living room, the bathroom door clicking shut across the apartment. It sounds like Porter is talking to someone on the phone for a while and Mat thinks about how he and Porter used to text every day.

He rolls over to reach for his phone, ignores a couple of new texts from Jake to scroll through his messages. The last message he sent to Porter is from a couple of months ago, something drunk and garbled. Mat actually laughs, soft and out loud, when he realizes it's from his birthday and the text was an invitation to come visit. A text that he never received a response to.

It makes him angry, a little. He pushes it down, buries it under all the other hurt and sets his phone on the floor.

He chastises himself briefly - he knows Porter’s been going through shit too this year, knows how much his writing block is hurting him. He wishes he knew how to help. Selfishly he wishes Porter would have come to him instead of anyone else.

He's so tired.

\---

Mat wakes, screaming, from a dream about darkness and falling and loss.

It's not a rare thing. Nightmares are a pretty regular part of life for him now, but it's been a while since he woke up so violently from one. He braces his elbows on his thighs, presses his palms to his face.

His bedroom door clicks open. Porter comes in, ruffled and disoriented and eyes glittering with worry in the dim light from the window when Mat looks up at him. Mat's anxiety builds, crescendos like an orchestra in his chest, and he buries his face in his hands again. He's not crying but it's a near thing.

The bed dips when Porter sits down and a hesitant hand touches Mat's knee. Mat doesn’t try to move away and they sit there like that for several long moments.

Porter knows what this is. He was there with him for months on tour, insinuating himself into Mat’s bunk and wrapping him up in his arms when Mat woke up shaking with panic. By the end of the tour they were sleeping in the same bed almost every night.

Mat can hear Porter's jaw pop when he yawns and he lifts his head.

“I'm okay,” Mat whispers, face still partially hidden in his hands. Porter looks at him, eyes hard to read in the dark. Then he's shaking his head and clambering over Mat, laying out on the side of the bed that's pushed against the wall. He stretches out his arm, gently curls his fingers around Mat's hip and tugs, urges him to lay down.

Mat does, heart pounding faster than it had been from the nightmare.

Porter's arm wraps around his waist, pulls Mat in close to press his chest to Mat's back. He can feel Porter breathing against his skin and he tries to slow his own breaths to match.

The deafening anxiety in him quiets marginally, dulls to a low buzz.

For a moment Mat wants to turn over in Porter’s arms, wants to bump his forehead against Porter’s. Wants to share air with him and know what kind of sound Porter would make if Mat pressed their mouths together.

Mat curls in on himself, Porter curving a little with him, when his chest starts to ache. That familiar ache that he’s spent years now carefully tucking away where it can’t reach him.

\---

Mat wakes up, sunlight coming in soft through his window. He blinks blearily, brings his wrist up to squint at his watch. It's just after eleven, the earliest he's been up in weeks.

The arm around his waist tightens and Porter snuffles sleepily against Mat's shoulder.

For the first time since Porter's arrival Mat doesn't flinch away. He lets Porter squeeze him closer in his sleep, lets him cling octopus-like for a moment before he gently extracts himself and rolls out of bed. The ache in his chest is still there but it's manageable in the daylight; the barbed yearning in his heart veined with something bright and maybe a little stupid, like hope.

Mat showers for the first time in three days. He finds his glasses, under his bed, and his wallet, in a cupboard on top of an expired jar of tomato sauce. He finds a pair of clean shorts and a t-shirt, tugs them on quietly while Porter snores and drools on his pillowcase.

He leaves the apartment, a little shaky, anxiety sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. But he makes it out into the sunny street and walks down to a neighbourhood bakery to buy a bagel for himself and a fluffy chocolate croissant, shining with glaze, for Porter. At the last minute he gets them both coffees, stuffing a handful of single serve sugars and creamers in the bag on his way out.

The woman at the counter smiles at him and he actually manages a smile back.

When he lets himself back in Porter is standing in the bedroom doorway, looking dazed and a little concerned.

“Where did you go?” Porter asks, voice deeper than normal and thick with sleep. His hair is sticking up on one side and his collarbone is exposed and in the midday sun Mat has never seen anything more beautiful.

Mat turns away to set everything down on the counter and shrugs.

 _I love you_ , he thinks. “I got you coffee,” he says.

Mat toasts his bagel and eats it silently while Porter dumps most of the sugar packets into his coffee. The look of relief on his face when he takes the first sip makes Mat almost want to laugh, something giddy blooming in his chest.

Everything about this moment, standing there drinking coffee with a sleep-ruffled Porter; it's all so achingly representative of everything he wants. What he's wanted for a very long time.

For the second time in the last twenty-four hours he carefully pushes all that away.

Mat goes out on his balcony and waters his plants while Porter showers. One of the basil plants is a little wilted but otherwise they've all survived his negligence, and he's quietly relieved. He sits outside in the sun for a while, snapback shading his closed eyes.

Maybe he nods off for a while, because when he next opens his eyes Porter is standing on the balcony, examining a vine of tiny green tomatoes. He glances back at Mat and smiles, easy and a little heartbreaking. Mat, with effort, quirks up one corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” says Porter, turning and leaning back against the railing.

“Hi,” says Mat. He pulls his feet up onto the deck chair and Porter frowns. Just a little downward quirk of his mouth. He crouches down and looks at his hands. Mat watches him twist them together, pick at his cuticles.

“You don't have to hide from me,” Porter says, so quietly that Mat can barely hear him over the cars passing.

Mat says nothing.

Porter is still staring at his hands and when Mat looks over he can see his brows knitting together.

Mat drops his gaze and curls up a little tighter on the chair. That awful ache is inflating in him again and he tries to make himself smaller, to keep himself together. He wants to reach out, get his hands wound in Porter's shirt and touch his shower-damp hair. Wants to press his cheek to Porter's forehead and tell him everything. Wants him to know how much he fucking loves him.

It hurts _so much_.

“I wish you would tell me what’s wrong,” Porter says, and there’s an edge of desperation in his voice. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry, I don't know what to do-,”

Mat's knuckles split when his fist hits the wall. The paint cracks.

Porter stops talking immediately, mouth still open mid-sentence, and they're both quiet.

Mat pulls his hand back, sets it numbly in his lap. His knuckles are cracked and bleeding and already going purplish with bruises. He stares down at them.

He's not even angry. He doesn't feel much of anything, at the moment.

He hears a dismayed sound through the hum in his ears and suddenly Porter's face enters his field of vision. He's kneeling on the ground next to Mat's chair and Mat stares back at him, vision dark around the edges.

“ _Mat_ ,” says Porter, twin tears spilling down his cheeks.

Something inside Mat _shatters_ and suddenly tears are pouring down his face, too. There's a terrible sound, high and mournful, and for a second he can't place it - and then realizes it's coming from his own lips. He curls even more, presses his forehead to his knees and sobs.

Porter's hands are on him, on his knee and then his arm and then reaching up to curl around the back of his head. He wants to reach out and let Porter hold him, bury his face in Porter's chest. He wants to be held. He wants to feel safe.

He feels like if he uncurls his body he’ll break into pieces.

He cries for a long time. He doesn't know how long he sits there, tears dripping down his cheeks and off his nose. Porter stays there with his arms wrapped awkwardly around Mat's tense body, his palm pressed into the back of his neck.

Mat cries until he can't cry anymore. It's cathartic. He can't honestly remember the last time he cried.

When he comes back to himself he can hear Porter murmuring reassurances into his leg, forehead resting against Mat's bare shin. Mat lifts his head a little and the movement makes Porter shift back to look. Their eyes meet over Mat’s knees. It takes a lot of effort for Mat not to look away. Porter reaches up, hesitates, then carefully rests his hand on top of Mat’s head.

“Let’s get out of here,” Porter tries, voice wavering.

“Okay,” says Mat.

\---

Mat ends up in the passenger seat of his own car after Porter coaxes him into a pair of flip-flops and out the door. He sits staring blankly down at his knuckles, bruised and already scabbing, while Porter fusses with the Bluetooth on his iPhone. Eventually Porter presses his phone into Mat's hands and tells him to change it to whatever, then pulls out of the garage and onto the road.

They're heading west, toward the ocean. Porter loves the LA beaches, loves the boardwalk and the rides and Mat thinks dimly that that's probably where they're going. He keeps his gaze down at his lap, turns Porter's phone over a couple of times in his hands. Something poppy and almost definitely Japanese is playing quietly through the car speakers.

Mat looks up at Porter.

He's drumming one hand against the steering wheel to the beat, mouthing along to the words. His Ray-Bans have slid partway down his nose and Mat wants to reach over and push them up. Maybe tuck his hair behind his ear.

Mat drops his gaze again, thinks he probably couldn't be any more in love with someone.

Porter's phone vibrates in Mat's hand once, as they're driving, and he glances at the notification. It's from Nicole, asking how LA is. Mat turns the phone over so he doesn’t have to look at it.

He wonders how much she knows. He met her once after a show and she'd given him this look, like she knew everything in his head and in his heart. He'd left soon after. It wasn't that he'd ever disliked her, just finally seeing them together made it so _real_ and cemented how stupid he was being in a very final way.

Not that that had changed anything, or made any difference in how he felt. How he still feels.

It's just after three when they arrive in Santa Monica and park the car. The crowds are fairly thin, and Mat realizes he doesn't actually know what day of the week it is. Still, being around this many people after days alone in his apartment makes him feel queasy and strange, and he keeps his head down.

Porter has cheered visibly since their drive, even though they hadn't exchanged more than a couple of words the entire hour in the car. He's twirling Mat's keys around one finger as they step out of the parking garage and into the sun.

“Where do you want to go?” Porter asks, and out of the corner of his eye Mat can see the way he's tilting his head to look at him.

Mat keeps his gaze down and shrugs.

A long-fingered hand very gently closes around his wrist and Mat flinches, makes himself look up into Porter's face. Porter smiles. “Come on,” he says, tightens his grip for a second. He starts walking and keeps his hand around Mat's arm, tugs him along behind him for a few steps.

It would be so easy to twist his wrist, slip his hand into Porter's. Lace their fingers together and feel Porter's palm pressing warm against his own. His heart pounds and pounds and he feels like he's going to throw up, he’s lightheaded and he isn't thinking straight, and he goes to move his hand - and then Porter lets go.

Mat sucks in a ragged breath and goes back to quietly piecing himself back together.

They end up on the pier. Porter insists on buying churros from a stand at the amusement park, pushes one into Mat's hand. Porter chews away happily while Mat trails along behind him.

The pier is more crowded than the streets and Mat's stomach churns. He picks at the paper wrapped around his churro, fidgeting and uncomfortable in the world and in his own skin. It's all entirely overwhelming but Porter looks back at him, smiling wide and sincere, and he tries to stifle the urge to bolt. He smiles back weakly, and passes Porter his untouched food with a mumbled excuse about not being hungry.

They must have only been here ten minutes, he thinks, but when he looks at his watch it's been an hour. His head spins as he tries to recollect the lost time.

Something is building in him and he thinks about the safety of his kitchen floor. He thinks wildly of his half-eaten box of Triscuits, sitting in the cupboard at home.

It's too much. It's all too much.

Porter is trying so hard to help him and he's doing _nothing_. He's still angry at Porter for going away and he loves him so fiercely it burns and it's turning his insides molten and he's _terrified_. He feels his lungs struggling to expand. His vision tunnels.

He takes off at a run.

All at once he comes back to himself for the second time today and he's standing at the end of the pier, staring out into the ocean. His toes are just past the edge of the wood. His shoes are gone and he's confused and he wavers, almost tips forward but takes a step back. Then another. Then he's sitting down hard on the boards.

He brings his hand to his face. He's not crying.

There's the slap-slapping of approaching feet, coming in quick behind him. He hears his name through the ever-present buzzing and he doesn't turn around. Porter's sandals and bare calves appear in his periphery and he stares, steadfast, out into the ocean.

He takes a breath as Porter sits down next to him. He’s got Mat’s shoes in one hand.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads, voice small and soft and scared. The darkness in the corners of Mat’s vision is clearing and he can see Porter’s face in profile, staring down at the water.

Mat presses his fingertips against his scabbing knuckles and doesn't say anything.

“Please,” says Porter again and Mat swallows.

“Why did you stop calling?”

He barely recognizes his own voice as it comes out of his mouth, involuntary.

Porter turns to look at him, mouth hanging open. “What?”

Mat swallows and clenches his fists against his thighs. “You… stopped calling,” he manages. “You stopped texting and Skyping and I never heard from you anymore.”

Porter makes a wounded noise, deep from in his chest.

They’re both quiet for a long moment. Mat hears Porter suck in a shaky breath.

“I did this?” Porter asks eventually, and his voice wavers and cracks. “Did I do this to you?”

Mat tries to breathe, can’t get himself to respond.

Porter sobs, once, and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair to rub at his face. “I’m sorry, oh my god,” he says into his palms. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Mat’s hand is shaking when he reaches out to grab Porter’s wrist. It’s a nauseating contrast to the reassuring grip Porter had on him earlier. He can’t get his voice to work and now Porter is staring at him, tears running down his face.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispers eventually.

Porter makes another mournful sound and shuffles closer to Mat. Mat doesn’t let go of Porter’s wrist.

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” Porter says quietly, still wobbly with tears. “We were both dating people and you know how hard it is to balance that kind of time and with touring and everything it’s just-,”

“Stop,” Mat grits out. All the anger he's pushed down for years is puncturing the numb haze he’s so carefully wrapped himself in and he feels himself tighten his grip on Porter’s wrist. “Please, just stop.”

Porter stops. He looks down at his lap and stays silent and Mat can see his mouth trembling. It’s quiet, except for the roar of the ocean.

Porter twists his wrist out of Mat’s grip and links their hands.

Mat fights back the urge to burst into tears. Porter's fingertips press gently against his bruised knuckles.

Porter sniffs, once, then looks down at their hands. “I really liked you, Mat,” he says.

Mat's heart drops into his stomach.

“I liked you so much,” he continues, “but we both ended up dating girls, and I don't really know anything about that kind of shit, you know? So I just…” He trails off.

“Porter,” says Mat, and his voice breaks tellingly. “Don't.”

Porter barks out a watery little laugh. “I guess it was one-sided after all. What a cliché, right?”

“Let’s go,” says Mat. He can hear the desperation in his own voice. He stands, pushes himself off the ground, the planks of the pier rough against his bare feet. Porter doesn’t let go of his hand. “Come on, let’s just go, please, Porter.”

Porter sniffles again and wipes at the tears still spilling down his cheek. He’s trying to smile but he looks positively miserable. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry I made it weird.”

Mat heaves in a breath, looks down at Porter and his stupid, perfect face.

“I fucking love you,” he says.

There’s a beat of silence as Porter turns to gape at him.

“I’m fucking in love with you, I’ve been in love with you for years,” Mat says through his teeth, presses the knuckles of his free hand into his forehead.

They’re frozen in an awkward tableau, Mat standing bent, trying to pull Porter up and Porter sitting there staring wide-eyed at him. His sunglasses are still up in his hair and the sun is shining and the waves are sloshing against the pier.

A gull calls overhead. Mat’s head aches.

Then Porter starts to laugh.

He’s sitting there on the ground, cackling, still clinging to Mat’s hand. Tears are streaming down his face and he palms at his cheek.

Mat sits back down. After a moment he presses his fingers into Porter’s hand. “Shut up, man,” he mumbles. He can feel himself flushing and he keeps his eyes down.

Porter barks out another laugh. “We’re such idiots, _Jesus_ ,” he says, and it sounds like he can barely keep himself from giggling.

Mat’s mouth starts to twitch and suddenly he’s smiling too.

Porter turns over so he’s on his knees, facing Mat. He glances down at their linked hands and _beams_. Mat tries to keep his face neutral but as soon as he meets Porter’s eyes he’s smiling back at him.

“I missed you,” says Porter softly, face serious for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Then Porter leans in and presses his lips to Mat’s, and it feels like all the weight he’s been carrying for the last few months, the last few _years_ lifts. Mat makes a tiny, desperate sound into Porter’s mouth and reaches up with his free hand to cup his cheek.

Porter pulls away, eyes heavy-lidded and crinkling at the corners with how wide he’s smiling. The sun is flaring behind him, making a halo of light, and Mat laughs out loud at how stupid and cliched this is.

“I missed you too, asshole,” Mat croaks. His heart feels like it's swelling and glowing and he curls his fingers into Porter's hair to pull him back in.

“Yo,” Porter says, and he’s smiling against Mat’s mouth. “I fucking love you too.”


End file.
